You know what? I'm sick and tired of everything. I'm going to give up writing music. I can't sing, I can't play, and I definitley cant write.
My latest EP sounds like a shit collection of Midlake songs that were too embarressing to put on any record. I don't like it, and there's no chance in hell anyone else will.I'm probably too stupid to pass these exams, I'm shit company, I'm not much to look at, and I can't ever do anything properly, or right. All I can do is get wasted, and to be honest, I don't even seem to be very good at that. Everyone else can go out and feel good and have fun, I just get miserable and introverted. I don't even know why I'm writing this if I'm honest.
I'm feeling isolated, unconsoled, and yet I'm too much of a cunt to let people try and help me. I'm a great fucking guy. I dont deserve the people I know.
Saturday, 7 June 2008
Saturday, 12 April 2008
Excerpt from a book that no longer has a title
Today I have been constantly playing “The Power of Love” to see if I can get my roommate to threaten to kill me again. He did it before and it turned me on a little. The walls holding my world in its place, and locking it away from other peoples worlds feel so frail right now that I swear I can hear the walls groan and feel them move every time I blink. I could get up, but I’d feel if I did that, I’d have to empty my ash tray, or put on clothes, and I like the fact that it’s overflowing ever so slightly, and lying around naked doing nothing but smoking makes me feel free.
I kind of have to go for a slash, but again, that means getting out of bed, and that isn’t something I’m prepared to do. I’ve been lying here for a long time, and it feels wrong to break my endeavour of nothingness over something as meaningless as that.
Besides, I do that several times a day. How often do I lie about cigarette in hand, exposed to the world. Or at least to my room. Probably more often than most people, but fuck most people, what do they know about enjoying themselves?
I really hate Huey Lewis and The News. Fuck you, Patrick Bateman, I was mindlessly drugged up when I decided you were a role model, in your own, psychotic way. And Genesis are, have been, and always will be utter shit. I hate Phil Collins.
I was in Texas, two years ago. My friend had a place out there, a beaten up El Camino, and a whole load of drugs. So we went out, and made pretend we were Hunter S. Thompson and his sidekick whose name no-one ever remembers, because they saw a little bit of the film, bought the poster, but didn’t realise it was a book. We ended up in some bar. It wasn’t rundown, but it wasn’t nice. If I got on with my mother, I wouldn’t take her there. I talked to the bartender there, whilst my friend covered his bathroom in all kinds of bodily fluids, and probably most of the drugs he’d put into his body so far. He asked me what I did, and I told him that I sang and wrote songs for pennies. He told me that he once tried to write a song for his wife, but she left him a few weeks later. He thought it was probably unrelated, but said he didn’t have the strongest voice anyway, and that he would stick to Johnny Cash from now on. I smiled, and thanked him for the drink, and for allowing me to stereotype him in my mind. He said he was jealous of anyone that could have a way with words, but not in those words. I thought that I was jealous of someone who could have such a distinct dialect. A rich accent, and a proper story to tell. A range of colloquialisms not only his, but exclusive to his world. I don’t remember much else of Texas, but I remember the old bartender.
I kind of have to go for a slash, but again, that means getting out of bed, and that isn’t something I’m prepared to do. I’ve been lying here for a long time, and it feels wrong to break my endeavour of nothingness over something as meaningless as that.
Besides, I do that several times a day. How often do I lie about cigarette in hand, exposed to the world. Or at least to my room. Probably more often than most people, but fuck most people, what do they know about enjoying themselves?
I really hate Huey Lewis and The News. Fuck you, Patrick Bateman, I was mindlessly drugged up when I decided you were a role model, in your own, psychotic way. And Genesis are, have been, and always will be utter shit. I hate Phil Collins.
I was in Texas, two years ago. My friend had a place out there, a beaten up El Camino, and a whole load of drugs. So we went out, and made pretend we were Hunter S. Thompson and his sidekick whose name no-one ever remembers, because they saw a little bit of the film, bought the poster, but didn’t realise it was a book. We ended up in some bar. It wasn’t rundown, but it wasn’t nice. If I got on with my mother, I wouldn’t take her there. I talked to the bartender there, whilst my friend covered his bathroom in all kinds of bodily fluids, and probably most of the drugs he’d put into his body so far. He asked me what I did, and I told him that I sang and wrote songs for pennies. He told me that he once tried to write a song for his wife, but she left him a few weeks later. He thought it was probably unrelated, but said he didn’t have the strongest voice anyway, and that he would stick to Johnny Cash from now on. I smiled, and thanked him for the drink, and for allowing me to stereotype him in my mind. He said he was jealous of anyone that could have a way with words, but not in those words. I thought that I was jealous of someone who could have such a distinct dialect. A rich accent, and a proper story to tell. A range of colloquialisms not only his, but exclusive to his world. I don’t remember much else of Texas, but I remember the old bartender.
I'm tired of acting out old clichés. I've got a certain set down to an artform.
I've been doing all that stupid shit you do with your mind when you're fourteen, and six years on, I should have gotten over myself by now.
I could write out a list of wants, but that would be a pretty futile and pointless exercise.
I've been doing all that stupid shit you do with your mind when you're fourteen, and six years on, I should have gotten over myself by now.
I could write out a list of wants, but that would be a pretty futile and pointless exercise.
Saturday, 5 April 2008
Sunday, 30 March 2008
I am twenty years old. I am no longer a teenager, but twenty seems so interstitial. Twenty-one seems to be the gateway to adulthood. I don’t feel like an adult, by any means.
I stand in the bathroom, after my shower. I look at myself in the mirror. Slim. Short. Not exactly ripped, but there’s a bit of muscle there. There’s a small patch of hair in the very middle of my chest. Hardly worth mentioning. Hardly worth noticing. My shoulders are a fair bit wider than my waist. I guess it’s uncommon these days, but I’ve been told it was the ideal man shape, once upon a time. In some kind of romantic, black and white age, where everyone could smoke and not get cancer, and loneliness was exclusive to those who favoured gin, and short, breathy sentences, spoken through gritted teeth.
I’m running my hands down my chest, over the scars I see so prominently, but would probably go unnoticed. It makes me think about the little marks over my hands, arms, fingers, and dotted around the rest of my body. Then there’s always the ones no-one can see on your body, but show in your words, actions, and interactions. Sometimes I think they’re invisible, but, in all probability, they’re probably the most obvious.
I brush my teeth, and put something in my hair to keep it out of my face. It’s pretty pointless, the wind and snow outside will make short work of anything I try and do with it. I walk downstairs, grab my book, grab my mp3 player, grab my headphones. Lock the front door. Walk to the station.
I spend the next two hours on the train, down to Bexhill. Bexhill, to me, has always been a place where people and things get old, but time doesn’t pass. The same could be said for most of my experience of sussex, but then, I only know the decaying piers and ancient amusement arcades. I’ve been told Brighton is the place to be, but I’ve only been there once, on a school trip. I might not have even been a teenager.
I stand in the bathroom, after my shower. I look at myself in the mirror. Slim. Short. Not exactly ripped, but there’s a bit of muscle there. There’s a small patch of hair in the very middle of my chest. Hardly worth mentioning. Hardly worth noticing. My shoulders are a fair bit wider than my waist. I guess it’s uncommon these days, but I’ve been told it was the ideal man shape, once upon a time. In some kind of romantic, black and white age, where everyone could smoke and not get cancer, and loneliness was exclusive to those who favoured gin, and short, breathy sentences, spoken through gritted teeth.
I’m running my hands down my chest, over the scars I see so prominently, but would probably go unnoticed. It makes me think about the little marks over my hands, arms, fingers, and dotted around the rest of my body. Then there’s always the ones no-one can see on your body, but show in your words, actions, and interactions. Sometimes I think they’re invisible, but, in all probability, they’re probably the most obvious.
I brush my teeth, and put something in my hair to keep it out of my face. It’s pretty pointless, the wind and snow outside will make short work of anything I try and do with it. I walk downstairs, grab my book, grab my mp3 player, grab my headphones. Lock the front door. Walk to the station.
I spend the next two hours on the train, down to Bexhill. Bexhill, to me, has always been a place where people and things get old, but time doesn’t pass. The same could be said for most of my experience of sussex, but then, I only know the decaying piers and ancient amusement arcades. I’ve been told Brighton is the place to be, but I’ve only been there once, on a school trip. I might not have even been a teenager.
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